


An Act of Desperation

by withmyradio



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gleb has a Mysterious Backstory, Guilt, I promise, Oral Sex, Pragmatic Anya, Smut, This Was Not Gleb's Idea, This is really not as depressing as it sounds, Vaginal Fingering, Virgin Gleb, alternate first meeting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:19:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22360177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withmyradio/pseuds/withmyradio
Summary: In which Anya wants her freedom and Gleb wants what he can get - but hates himself for it.
Relationships: Anya | Anastasia Romanov/Gleb Vaganov
Comments: 18
Kudos: 88





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains elements of dubious consent and nonviolent coerced sex, not at Gleb's instigation. If this is going to bother you, please don't read!

**1**

Gleb Vaganov does not like irregularities.

To be fair, he doesn’t like much of anything. He _loves_ Russia, the uniform he wears in her name, the medals she’s graced him with. Beyond that… He likes his new job as Deputy Commissioner, likes the authority and the respect and being that much closer to fulfilling his father’s legacy. He likes the telephone that came with his new office even though it doesn’t quite work yet. And he likes a very particular type of teacake, served in only one particular teashop just steps from the Nevsky Prospekt. Everything else can go hang, including irregularities. Especially irregularities.

That’s the general gist of his thoughts, though nothing so coherent, as he stares down at the sheet of paper before him. All his days are long, and this one has been longer than most, commencing just before sunrise with a rousing speech on the Prospekt (in the freezing cold, which he has never quite managed to love even though it is oh so Russian), followed by a lot of hard work for little reward untangling a web of rumors woven all through Leningrad about a girl he knows for a fact is dead but some seem to believe, or want to believe, is alive. Although why anyone would want that he can’t imagine. His neck and shoulders feel tight under his uniform at the very thought. There is also a throbbing behind his eyes, partially a result of drawing his brows together over the bridge of his nose in the fearsome scowl expected of a Deputy Commissioner, and partially a result of squinting at pages and pages of paperwork for the last several hours.

Pages like the order of execution directly in front of him, the one with the irregularities. The first being that he neither filled it out nor signed it, was in fact not even aware of it. He’s not the only person in Leningrad with the power of signing orders of execution, of course, a distinction even less rare when one considers that sometimes his men find summary judgement and justice is necessary. For Russia, for the revolution. But generally if someone has gone to the trouble of filing an official order of execution, one signed and sealed and appearing on his desk, as Deputy Commissioner he is at least aware of the case. The second irregularity is that the person who did sign it, one Comrade Gorlinsky by name, is 1) his superior and therefore usually uninvolved in such mundane matters, and 2) not in Leningrad at the moment.

He would chalk it up to… Something, he’s sure there must be some reason for it, if not for the third irregularity. The condemned is a woman, a woman named Anya. It’s not unheard of for women to be executed; in the new regime all are equal, including women – to an extent, they’re still figuring that part out – but it is rare. For particularly heinous crimes and counterrevolutionary activities such a sentence might be handed down, but generally speaking the people don’t like it. He can’t say he likes it much himself. And he cannot imagine anyone approving an order of execution for a woman without consulting him, or at least without him hearing about it. Particularly when the one who supposedly approved it is out of the city. Particularly when the timing of the execution is so strange, set to take place in just two hours.

It’s almost dark now; it’s already very cold. It’s impossible to make an example of an execution when no citizens are on hand to witness it. For this reason executions are best at morning or midday. And for this reason he cannot ignore this piece of paper with all its irregularities, despite the fact that he dearly wishes he could do so. He cannot put it off until tomorrow because this woman has no tomorrow, not unless he allows it. And she deserves this much from him, whoever she is, deserves some few minutes of his time just to make sure her death has been earned.

Knowing this, _believing_ it, does nothing to lessen the tightness in his shoulders or the throbbing behind his eyes.

“Comrade!” he calls from his desk, aware that most people have gone home by now (and oh how he envies them), and uncertain who precisely remains. _Comrade_ applies to everyone, and whoever is closest will come if they know what’s good for them.

A young man, a lieutenant by his uniform, appears in the doorway, the expression on his boyish face some mix of trepidation and… Well, more trepidation, perhaps bordering on fear. But that’s alright. Gleb wields a truly dizzying amount of power and fear is a natural response.

“Comrade?” the lieutenant asks, hesitant. “I didn’t realize you were still here, is something wrong?”

“Possibly,” he responds, gesturing for the young man to stand before him as he sits behind his desk. The lieutenant does so, his bearing formal enough for an official review and his face as white as the piece of paper that started this whole mess. “What do you know of an execution taking place two hours from now?”

“I – I know there is one.” The young man’s eyes flick to the side, unwilling to make direct contact with Gleb’s stare – a sure sign of uneasiness, of either lies or half-truths.

“And?”

“Well – ” the lieutenant hesitates yet again, and Gleb sends him a glare that clearly communicates that now is not the time for hesitation. “It’s strange that it’s happening so quickly; the perpetrator was brought in just a few hours ago. It was late already. I- I’d have thought it would keep until morning. There are two scheduled then. It would only make sense to delay the third.”

To make a better example. Gleb nods, mouth turning down at the corners in a frown. It’s not directed at the young man, of course, but it does the lieutenant no harm to think it might be.

“If she was brought in so recently, how is it that Comrade Gorlinsky signed it?” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“Forgive me, comrade, but – It wasn’t Commissioner Gorlinsky. It was _Captain_ Gorlinsky.” His superior’s son? That complicates matters. “He apprehended her, interrogated her and signed the order, all within an hour.”

“Did he?”

“He’d have carried out the sentence immediately if not for the fact that he had a prisoner to interrogate on a different matter,” the young man says. There’s nothing improper in his words or tone but Gleb senses the lieutenant disapproves of the process. Gleb doesn’t necessarily _approve_. Such haste is sometimes necessary, but while as a captain Pavel Andreevich Gorlinsky has the authority to carry out those steps, he has not proven himself sufficiently that Gleb trusts him to be judge, jury and executioner.

“Where is Captain Gorlinsky now?”

“Finishing with his interrogation,” the lieutenant shrugs, or shrugs as much as one can when standing at full attention. “Or perhaps he’s gone home until it’s time to carry out the sentence. I can check the interrogation room if you require him.”

Gleb considers. In all honesty, he dislikes Pavel Andreevich Gorlinsky, disloyal as that may be to his superior, and knowing now the man is involved in this mess… Well, it goes a long way to convincing him that there _is_ an actual mess being papered over with this order of execution.

“No. Where is the woman?”

“In a cell.”

“Alone?” Gleb asks, raising his eyebrow. Past Deputy Commissioners have allowed male and female prisoners to be locked in together, but Gleb is of the opinion that it is needlessly cruel to the women in question and unwarrantedly kind to the men in question. He somehow doubts Captain Gorlinsky adhered to procedure even that far.

The lieutenant glances away, glances back at Gleb, stares at the toes of his boots. “Captain Gorlinsky ordered me to put her with the men, but – I put her in her own cell instead. I thought it more important to follow your orders than his.”

The boy raises his chin and returns to full attention, brave in the face of what might very well be his superior’s displeasure. The Cheka doesn’t much care for its soldiers to think _anything_ , especially anything different than what their captains tell them. But Gleb sees something more than disobedience in the young man’s behavior. Loyalty is a precious commodity, a rare one, and Gleb senses this lieutenant will bear watching.

“What is your name, comrade?”

“Medvedev. Maksim Medvedev,” he says, quietly terrified, awkward with it. “My, ah – My friends call me Maks.”

“You did exactly right, Comrade Medvedev. Now, fetch her,” Gleb orders, a careless wave of his hand dismissing the lieutenant. The boy needs a chance to recover his composure, anyway.

“Right away, comrade.” He leaves with the proper amount of haste, which Gleb of course approves of.

As he waits, he considers. If Captain Gorlinsky is behind some underhanded dealing in this case, Gleb has very little recourse, which fact fills him with rage. With his high position and all his power, it rankles to not be able to deal with any one of his men as he sees fit – but there is no arguing with his own superior, and somehow parents, even good Russian comrades, never seem to consider their children as equal to anyone else, he’s noticed that before. His own father… Well. He is neither here nor there (nor anywhere, technically, as he is long dead – of shame, according to his mother, though Gleb has never understood – shame for what?).

Still. Whether he can punish Gorlinsky or not – whether there’s anything to punish him for, even – he can at least get to the bottom of the mystery. With any luck it will be shallow indeed, the girl will be manifestly guilty, and he can drag himself home to his deserted flat to sleep the sleep of the just in his lonely bed, secure in the knowledge that he has done his duty. He doesn’t expect that will be the case, but a man can dream.

Gleb has not given much thought to the woman at the heart of this entire issue, not much beyond thinking she deserves a fair review, as anyone does. He certainly has not considered what she may or may not look like. And even if he had, he would have assumed she’d look like any other woman desperate to leave Leningrad: haggard, thin, tired. The years since the revolution have not been easy, he knows that well enough, just as he knows that through the virtue of hard work the people, united, will lift up the Motherland and make it a beacon for the workers of all nations – but that takes time, and sacrifice, a price everyone has paid. Is paying. All of which is to say he’d never have imagined the woman whose life he holds in his hands might be breathtakingly, blindingly beautiful.

She is.

Oh, she _is_. Diminutive in stature and slender bordering on thin, she isn’t so remarkable at first glance. Her clothes are filthy, ragged and torn, and the hair falling out of the coronet of braids atop her head seems to be a nondescript brown. With her hands cuffed behind her back and her head down, gaze trained on the worn toes of her boots, she looks so – frail, fragile. Vulnerable. Even before he sees her face, that vulnerability kindles something in him, some small spark of warmth that he ruthlessly stamps out. But then she lifts her head and that spark flares to life, filling him with some feeling he can’t name but most emphatically does not like.

It’s her eyes, he supposes, blue as the Neva in summer at high noon, clear and deep enough that he feels he could drown in them – would love to drown in them. The fact that they’re set in a small oval face along with the most delicately carved features he’s ever imagined might have something to do with it as well. But mostly it’s the expression on that face: vulnerable, yes, and frightened, but somehow still serene, proud in a way that transcends her tattered rags and dirt-smudged skin.

“That will be all,” Gleb says without even a glance to Medvedev as he deposits her in the chair before the desk. It would be embarrassing for Deputy Commissioner Gleb Vaganov – decorated general, soldier, spy – to admit, but he isn’t even aware of when precisely the lieutenant leaves… Only of her.

Unlike the vast majority of his comrades, who seem to do nothing but leverage their status to convince or coerce women into their beds, he has never had much interest in such things – to the consternation of his superiors, some of whom he knows suspect he harbors _unnatural tendencies_. It would be the death of more than his promising career if that were the case, but as it happens it isn’t. He’s merely focused on the cause, or so he tells himself; the past does not bear thinking of. Only the present, and Russia’s future, and his role in it. Women are an unnecessary distraction, and the idea of taking one to bed is… Horrifying. If he considers it for too long, the thought continues on from horrifying to paralyzing as the memories play behind his eyelids and… No. He is perfectly content to appreciate women rather distantly, detached, quite capable of discerning when one is attractive yet feeling no attraction himself.

This… Is not like that at _all_. He doesn’t just see her and think she’s beautiful, or know she’s beautiful; he _feels_ it, in every cell of his body, with every breath his lungs refuse to take, every beat of his heart fighting wildly to escape from his chest. His throat is dry, as if he could choke on nothing if he even attempted to speak, and his whole being aches with the need to put his hands on her. The past that doesn’t bear thinking of is no match for this feeling, for the clamor of everything inside of him crying out that the distance between them, any distance between them, is unacceptable.

He hates it. He’s almost sick with his awareness of her, his head spinning, and he can’t think. She is aware of him too, he can tell, as affected by the trappings of his power as anyone else, but her fear is not abject. Still, he finds he doesn’t want her to be afraid of him at all. Which is foolish, as there is something like an even chance he’ll be validating her order of execution after this conversation, and she must know it. That alone would be enough to frighten anyone, even without adding in his uniform and his office and the fact her hands are immobilized behind her. He can’t do much about most of it, but the cuffs at least… He wishes he could assure himself his intentions are purely altruistic, but in fact it’s the tantalizing possibility that his fingers might brush over the soft skin of her wrists as he frees her that has him eagerly reaching for his keys.

Rising almost as though compelled, he strides around his desk to stand before her, pausing only when he sees how her remarkable eyes have widened, how the fear has deepened. Close-to, the impact of her beauty is amplified, and he is acutely aware of her creamy skin and high cheekbones, her full rosy lips. They look soft, softly parted – because she’s practically hyperventilating at this point, Gleb admonishes himself. He feels his own height, the breadth of his shoulders, standing so close to someone so small; how much worse it must be for her, seated, physically restrained, at a disadvantage in every possible way. He’s an idiot.

“I mean you no harm,” he says, lowering himself to his knees beside her. That blue gaze follows him down and down until he’s perfectly level with her. It doesn’t seem to do much to calm her; her body is tense, and he suspects she’d spring out of her chair and halfway across the room if she didn’t know he’d stop her.

“It’s Anya, am I right?” His voice is so used to snapping orders, it’s difficult to make it gentle. He’s failing miserably, he supposes, as she’s still frightened.

“Yes,” she answers, and he can’t help but note that she doesn’t stutter, her voice doesn’t break. Terrified or not she is brave.

“Anya,” he repeats, savoring the syllables and attempting a smile, which also doesn’t help. Nothing helps, and won’t, of course. He _is_ an idiot. “Lean forward.”

Her eyes dart around the room, searching for something, but then she does as he suggested, leaning forward and so close that he can feel her soft breath caress his cheek – certainly not what he’d intended, but he can’t quite bring himself to pull away. With dawning horror he realizes he wants to tip her chin up with his finger, wants to press his lips to hers, hard, wants to imagine she’ll sigh into his kiss and open her mouth to his tongue. He wants to taste her, touch her, bury his hands in her hair – which is not plain brown as he’d first assumed, but rather threaded through with strands of honey amber and copper gold, shining in the light like the most glorious of sunsets. He wants to see it spread across his pillow.

These sudden fantasies are – disconcerting, almost frightening. He has never done any of these things he’s imagining, has never wanted to, not like this. He has never wanted anything like this. The need is so strong, so all-consuming, that he almost believes she’ll notice, see it in his eyes or on his face. Or, honestly, between his legs; he’s half hard but _entirely_ grateful for his uniform coat and the fact that it falls to his upper thighs.

It requires a herculean effort, but somehow he forces himself to back away enough that he can reach behind her, enough that he can fit his master key into the lock and free her. His fingers brush over the soft skin of her wrists, just as he imagined, and he feels something like electricity humming under his skin at that single brief contact, something sparking and bright. He isn’t certain whether he wants to savor it or escape it, but he doesn’t have a chance to really consider. The shackles fall to the floor with a _clang_ , and her arms, suddenly unweighted, rise.

“Oh.” It’s barely a whisper, but he can hear the genuine shock in it. He can’t quite imagine what she expected instead.

“There,” he murmurs, attempting a second smile. Her arms are no longer behind her and he takes her forearms gently in his hands, touching her purposefully for the first time despite knowing that he shouldn’t. The electricity remains, but nothing in her expression changes, which he can only assume means she feels nothing – a lowering thought, when just being near her is making him vibrate like a tuning fork. He attempts to ignore it, focusing instead on examining the raw red marks on her delicate wrists, tracing one with his finger. She shivers. Clearly she wasn’t cuffed the entire time, as the wounds aren’t bleeding, only tender. They’ll heal quickly enough – assuming she has more than two hours left for them to do so.

Two hours… That thought provides the slightest bit of clarity, a single shaft of light shining through the haze of desire he’s so lost in. In the space of a few confused heartbeats the possibility of validating her order of execution has become intolerable, yet he has wasted precious minutes of the little time she has left straining to catch the scent of her hair and caressing her surreptitiously, rather than finding some reason, any reason, to release her. If he can. If she’s guilty, he will have to do his duty, and for the first time in his military career he is suddenly not at all certain he’ll be able to. There must be some way… He shakes his head slightly, steels himself. Fine then. To business.

He rises and turns back to his desk, still hard enough inside his uniform trousers that he is relieved to be able to face away from her. Plucking her signed order of execution from the desk, he looks down at it and wills his erection away. It’s easier than he might have expected, if only because he is now thinking clearly enough to realize that Captain Gorlinsky must surely have been as aware of Anya’s beauty as he himself is. That he’d cuffed her, been alone with her inside a cell. Her clothing is torn, her hair tumbling down… Gleb feels a sudden surge of rage, generally in that he has never approved of violence against women, and specifically in that the thought of that man laying a hand on Anya makes him want to strangle someone. Still, he forces himself to remain outwardly calm. She’s frightened enough as it is.

He turns to her and asks “Has all of this been explained to you?” as gently as he knows how.

She looks at him, wary, and it occurs to him that she’s evaluating him, trying to find a way out of this. Normally this would put him on his guard, make him dig deeper to find whatever secrets might cause such desperation, but in this case he is entirely sympathetic and she is in enough trouble as it is. No need to go looking for more. “Yes.”

“According to Captain Gorlinsky’s report, you were apprehended attempting to purchase forged travel documents. Is this true?”

For just a moment, she considers lying – he can see it in her face. He almost wishes she would. He’d believe anything she told him, or at least accept anything, if it somehow mitigated her guilt enough to save her life. But his wish is not granted; she nods.

He compresses his lips into a thin line of annoyance. It had been foolish, he supposes, to hope young Gorlinsky had made up the accusation out of whole cloth. Gleb can only assume the captain had attempted to use her guilt as leverage for any number of unsavory purposes. Still, guilt is guilt, and her crime does sometimes warrant execution, absent any mitigating factors.

“And you refuse to disclose the name of your contact? Or the name of the person who introduced you?”

“I don’t refuse,” she says, agitated. “I’d tell you anything I know, if I knew anything, but I don’t.”

He believes her, and wishes he didn’t.

“You’re in a bad position, comrade,” he says bluntly, thoughts racing. There must be something, some way to justify saving her if not releasing her. “There is very little leeway in sentencing for your crime, and none at all if you can give me nothing, no – sign of good faith.”

It’s clear, the very moment that she misunderstands his words; her focus sharpens, and he can almost hear her considering what _sign of good faith_ an officer might require. Not that he can blame her; it’s unfortunately all too common for soldiers and officers to take advantage of desperate women. Captain Gorlinsky, for one. But that isn’t what he meant, not at all, no matter how it sounded. He would never –

“And if I could… Give you something?” she asks quietly, looking at him from beneath her lashes in a way that has his cock unwillingly stirring all over again.

He is appalled by her insinuation – and by how tempted he is. There’s something in her eyes, some determination, some resignation, and he realizes that she means it, that she really would do whatever he wanted, whatever it took to be free. He wants many things and they all seem to fill his mind at once, jumbled thoughts of her hair wrapped around his hand, her mouth on his, on _him_ , her legs draped over his shoulders. Her shuddering breath on his throat. His name on her lips… It’s dizzying, to think he could have all that, merely for the price of saving her life, something he’s attempting to do anyway.

But, of course, if it has a price it can’t actually be what he wants.

He shifts uneasily from foot to foot, hoping once more that she can’t read his thoughts or recognize his body’s reaction to her. “There is still little leeway. You would prefer Siberia to a firing squad, I presume?”

“Are there – no other options?”

She shocks him then by rising gracefully from the chair and approaching him; he freezes, filled with the overwhelming knowledge that he should flee but incapable of it. He feels hunted and awkward and cornered, all feelings he dislikes.

“Ah – No, not really.” His eyes dart around the office, resting everywhere but on her, her body, her face. “Um. Siberia – I grew up there. It _is_ – Preferable. To a firing squad.” (Even if only just.)

She ignores this rambling. A few light steps close the distance between them, and he is once more so aware of his own size, his own strength, so aware of her delicacy in comparison. It’s arousing somehow, knowing how easily he could lift her, how easily he could hold her in place, something he’s never even considered before. Something he doesn’t want to be considering now. This is not – He is not – He doesn’t understand what’s wrong with him.

“What will it take?” she asks softly.

“A name,” he responds, desperately, and his voice doesn’t break exactly – but it isn’t steady either. For one endless second her too-blue gaze seems to burn into his own before he glances away uncomfortably again. “Any name, I could – Some names are more common than others… Mine is Gleb, for example, and – I’ve never arrested another one, but – There were four Dmitrys last week alone. You could – Say ‘Dmitry’. Or – Ah, ‘Vlad’. ‘Alexei’. ‘Feodor’. ‘Stepan’ –”

With a single shake of her head, she interrupts his recitation of every common male name in the whole of Leningrad. She trails her fingers lightly down his chest, tracing one of his medals, and he stills completely at her touch. He imagines somehow that he can feel a hint of the warmth of her skin even through the layers of his uniform, and tries not to imagine what it would feel like without any wool or linen in the way.

“What can I do to convince you to let me go?”

“Nothing,” he says, or snaps, really, forcing his voice to echo with authority. But the effect is somewhat spoiled, he thinks, by the fact that he’s edging back, away from her, as though he’d dearly like to flee but can’t because his desk is blocking his escape. Which makes sense because he _would_ dearly like to flee, or the part of him capable of rational thought would. Unfortunately that part is vanishingly small and not at all in control. “That’s – not how this works.”

She slides her hand lower, brushing over the front of his trousers, and he jolts even as his hips angle instinctively to better receive her touch. He’d known she’d misunderstood, that was obvious, but he hadn’t really thought – hadn’t dared hope, or hadn’t dared dread, that she’d do – whatever it is she’s doing. Hadn’t dared imagine how he’d respond.

“No?” she asks, all innocence, even as her small hand teases his already hard length until his uniform pants are uncomfortably tight.

He grabs her wrist with enough force to bruise, although he himself can’t tell if it’s to halt the motion of her hand or to hold it there.

“No.” His voice sounds breathless even to his own ears. He tries to ignore what’s happening, tries to remind himself that he finds it distasteful – she’s desperate, he’s in a position of power, the thought of coercing any woman into intimacy disgusts him but her especially – the only problem being that his cock certainly doesn’t find her palm cupping him through the thick wool of his trousers distasteful in the least.

Even worse, she knows it.

She smiles slightly and strokes him, as much as she can with his fingers encircling her wrist. But his grip is looser than it was, though he doesn’t remember deciding to release her. He doesn’t think… He _can’t_ think, not with the way she’s touching him. It’s not even that it feels good, although it does, but with so much fabric between the heat of her hand and his throbbing prick it’s not exactly satisfying; it’s more the potential of the moment, the tantalizing possibility that she’ll unbuckle his belt and unbutton his pants and slip her hand inside the opening of his undergarments, that she’ll caress him just like this but skin to skin. The thought is disorienting, exhilarating. No one has ever touched him like that except himself. No one has touched him at all in such a long time.

Again, he tries to remind himself that he doesn’t want this, but then she does exactly as he imagined she might and he can’t remember _why_. The sound of leather pulling through the metal buckle, the deft way she undoes it with her free hand, makes his breath catch, makes him somehow even harder and drives every thought but the hope that she’ll continue from his mind. And she does that too, does everything he wanted until he can feel her delicate fingers trailing over his length, the overwhelming sensation of it enough to make him gasp. Her hands are callused but still softer than his own, and so warm and small… His eyes drift shut as she grips him lightly, sliding from base to tip with gentle pressure, and it feels nothing like when he does this to himself. It feels unbelievably, unimaginably better.

She caresses him with care, as though afraid of hurting him; he can’t even begin to imagine the process of forming words, but if he could he’d tell her she won’t, she’s not. But perhaps his inability to speak is for the best. Even these delicate motions are enough to make him shudder and sigh, enough to make him bite his lip to keep from moaning so loudly it brings Comrade Medvedev running down the hall. Enough that he’s already close, something he knows must be all too clear to her from the desperate little sounds he can’t stop making in the back of his throat and the way he can’t keep himself from thrusting in her grip. It would be humiliating except he doesn’t have it in him to feel anything other than ecstasy just now. The palm of her hand swipes over his swollen head, filling him with pleasure so acute it’s almost pain, and her touch becomes a smooth glide thanks to the slick fluid leaking from him. Again, humiliating, if he could feel that emotion at the moment. He can’t. He’s not capable of thinking, either, not really, but he does vaguely wonder how much longer he can bear this before spilling himself all over her hand – the prospect of which brings him even closer.

But everything changes then. Suddenly the stroking stops, replaced by a firm grip at his base, and the sinuous brush of something warm and wet tracing his tip. Eyes still closed, he has one shocked second to suspect and then doubt what she’s doing before the heat of her mouth envelopes him, surprising Gleb so much that he almost cries out. He nearly collapses and is grateful for the solid wood of his desk behind him. His fingers grip hard at the edge as his head spins. It’s not that he’s unaware of such things; he was a soldier in the infantry on the front lines, he is neither naïve nor ignorant – merely inexperienced. His comrades have always seemed to set much store by this particular act, an obsession he’s never fully understood, but now… He’s never imagined anything could feel so… There is no superlative for how it feels to have her tongue on him, flicking at the exquisitely sensitive spot just below his tip, or how it feels when she begins to suck his cock in earnest, moving up and down his length and taking more and more each time.

It feels like flying and falling all at once, exhilarating and terrifying and _good_. So incredibly good.

There are so many things he wants to do but can’t. He wants to open his eyes and watch, wants to see her full lips stretched around his dick, wants to see it disappear inch by inch down her throat, but knows if he attempts to look it will all be over. He wants to bury his hands in her hair and thrust, wants to force her to take more, take it all, wants to feel the ring of her mouth pressed flush to the base of his cock, but doesn’t want to hurt her, doesn’t want to _force_ her to do anything – even if some small part of himself realizes it’s too late for that. So he keeps his eyes closed and his hands clamped on the edge of his desk and concentrates all his energy on not coming, not yet. The slick heat of her tongue, the suction, the way she strokes everything she can’t quite fit in her mouth – the way she _tries_ , until his swollen head is nudging the back of her throat – He never wants this to end.

It has to, of course, he knows that. Neither flying nor falling is sustainable indefinitely. He can only withstand this onslaught for so long, which is not very long at all. She moves on him, up and down, falling into an obscene rhythm, and even the wet sounds of what she’s doing to him push him closer to the edge. The small muscles in his thighs and belly and back begin to tighten as the pressure grows deep inside, making him tremble as bright sparks of pleasure begin to ignite under his skin. He does touch her hair then, though not the way he wants to; he tugs gently at the soft strands, trying to pull her back.

“Enough,” he groans, voice hoarse, almost inhuman. “I can’t – Please –”

She doesn’t stop. If anything she seems to suck harder, move faster, take him deeper, as though she wants him to flood her mouth with his come, as though she wants to taste it. In the back of his mind he knows that isn’t true, knows she must simply be grateful the ordeal is almost over, but that part of his mind has nothing to do with this. The very thought that she might want it is nearly all it takes, and his eyes fly open for one glimpse of her with his prick buried in her throat. It’s as gorgeously indecent as he imagined, and he once more resists the urge to force her down, to press himself as deep into her mouth as he possibly can. Instead, he strokes the long red-gold hair away from her delicate face so he can see her, the flush high on her cheekbones, the way her lips are parted around him. 

He tips her chin up until her deep blue gaze meets his and then he’s coming, helplessly, shuddering with release and spilling into her mouth with a harsh cry. His cock pulses and throbs, shooting jets of hot come down her throat, and he watches, dazed, as she swallows every drop. Almost as though she wants to, almost as though she likes it, a fantasy that only adds to the searing pleasure inundating him. It’s ecstasy on a scale he’s never imagined before, a tidal wave that rises and rises and never crests, washing over him and spilling out of him for what feels like an eternity until he’s finally spent.

With a gasp he collapses back against the desk, the solid piece of furniture the only thing preventing him from sliding boneless to the floor. Somehow he is _exhausted_ , limbs heavy, as drained as if he’d just run the length of the Nevsky Prospekt. He barely even feels her tongue cleaning him up, her soft hands tucking him back into his trousers, nimble fingers buckling his belt. He only feels exhaustion and then relief and then a sudden sinking sensation as he remembers all the reasons none of that should have happened. Sick, that’s how he feels, sick with guilt at what he’s done.

He can’t bear to look at her. Instead he stumbles around the desk to his chair, sinking into it and staring down at the blotter, at the order of execution glaring up at him accusingly from the surface. His hands tremble as he grasps it, as he tears it to pieces, as he presses those pieces into her palm – all without looking at her, as he still can’t bring himself to.

There are light footsteps – away from him, of course – and the sound of the door knob turning, the door opening. She seems to hesitate then, for just a moment; the sounds of her movement cease until he hears her shift, turning to look back at him perhaps. He wishes he was brave enough to face her, to look up, to see her silhouetted there, one last glimpse before she exits his office and his life forever, but he isn’t. He wishes he was brave enough to apologize, to beg her forgiveness, but he isn’t that either. He is far, far too ashamed.

“Thank you,” she says, quietly – and sounds as if she means it. “Comrade.”

 _Gleb_ , he wants to say, wants to hear her say in return, but he has no right to want anything from her, no right to what he’s already taken. No right to speak… And then she’s gone. She doesn’t slam the door, not at all, and it closes gently behind her, but the echo is so loud in his ears, louder even than the rushing of his thoughts or the beating of his heart.

Oh, he hates himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued... Please let me know your thoughts!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to anyone who's reading! Please remain mindful of the tags, and don't read anything that will upset you, although the consent is becoming steadily less dubious.

**2**

A week passes and the self-hatred does not abate. If anything, it intensifies day by day, or perhaps more accurately night by night. By day he feels his guilt like a sick heavy weight in his chest, which is as it should be, but by night… In his dreams he relives every moment again and again, his sleeping mind recalling the slick heat of her mouth on his aching cock with almost loving clarity. Worse, sometimes the dreams are not as it happened at all but rather as some part of him wishes it had. He dreams her hair is tangled in his hands and his eyes are open, dreams he watches every inch of his length disappear between her lips as he forces her head down, dreams she watches him with those impossibly blue eyes as he fucks her face. Dreams she smiles at him after he’s finished pouring himself down her throat. Dreams she thanks him – except that happened, he thinks. He always awakens stiff and throbbing and thoroughly disgusted with himself.

The memories haunt him, the dreams haunt him, and the question of how he of all people – having seen what he’s seen and knowing what he knows – could want that, enjoy that, nearly come just from thinking of that, haunts him even more. She was frightened, in fear for her life, desperate. It hadn’t occurred to him at the time, but he can see now that her hands on him were practiced, her mouth and tongue skilled – he remembers her clothes were torn, her hair in disarray, and wonders how many men have forced her to her knees, forced her to exchange sexual gratification for survival. He doesn’t want to think of himself as one of them. He doesn’t want to believe that she thinks of him as one of them, but knows she must.

Even knowing that doesn’t stop the dreams.

He’s exhausted, more and more each day, from lack of sleep. His speeches are lackluster, as is his performance in his new position, lackluster enough that if this continues even his absentee superior might notice. The people undoubtedly already have. Even Comrade Medvedev has taken to giving him puzzled and concerned looks when he thinks Gleb isn’t looking. But it’s impossible to hunt down the ghost of a Grand Duchess when he fights sleep with such desperation, impossible to focus in the office where everything happened. Leaving to patrol is no better, not when he fears (hopes?) he might see her on the Prospekt, or around every street corner in Leningrad. It’s all making him a little crazy – crazier.

Which is why it’s entirely understandable that the next time he sees her, he at first thinks he’s hallucinating in his exhaustion. How else to explain the way she materializes as if by magic just as he descends the steps of the government offices? (His sluggish mind can’t quite grasp that she was simply standing in the shadow of the building opposite.) How else to explain the way every dim light on the dusk dark street seems to shine on her, striking sparks off the red gold strands threaded through her hair and making her eyes seem to glow? (That is a genuine mystery.) He halts and stares, blinking stupidly to clear his gaze of whatever is making it look like she’s standing there, waiting for him.

“Comrade,” she says in greeting, and it hits him that perhaps he isn’t hallucinating after all. Surely in his own hallucination she would not call him that, not when he would give anything, _anything_ , to hear her speak his name instead. In his dreams she says it and her voice makes it beautiful.

“Anya,” he blurts in response. In his dreams he calls her by name as well, recites it like a litany while she – God, he can’t think about this now, not with her standing there.

She looks at him with brow raised and he realizes he’s still awkwardly frozen on the stairs. He ought to take those last few steps, ought to meet her where she waits, but part of him thinks just maybe he ought to turn and flee right back to his office. The only reason he can think of for her to be here, to speak to him, is to confront him. As much as he knows he doesn’t deserve to escape that, the utter coward in him wants to. But Gleb Vaganov is not a coward. He once faced down an entire mob of anarchists while armed with nothing but his pistol and his firm belief in his own authority; surely he can face her, face what he’s done. Surely he owes her that much – and an apology.

His leaden feet carry him down to her, though he stops far enough away that she needn’t fear him touching her, as he assumes she must. He fears it. The remembered feel of her hair, the softness of her skin when he tipped her face up to look at him as she – It makes his fingers twitch, makes him want to reach for her.

“Anya,” he says again. “What – What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” she replies, almost hesitant. “I need to speak to you.”

She seems rather subdued for someone planning to confront her attacker, he thinks. But if not that, then what?

“Is everything alright?” he asks. A thought occurs to him, one that makes his hands clench into fists at his side. “Has Captain Gorlinsky – ”

“Captain Gorlinsky? Oh. No, nothing – Nothing like that, I just – ”

A gust of icy wind chases down the street, and Anya wraps her arms around herself, shivering. Her gloves, he realizes, have holes in them, and her shabby coat looks barely adequate for fall, much less winter. He doesn’t mean to do it, but he finds himself reaching for her, touching her shoulder lightly the way he promised himself he wouldn’t. The contact fills him with warmth enough to combat the frigid weather, warmth that spreads from his fingers and all throughout his body in a pleasant tingling wave he struggles to ignore.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs. “There’s a teashop just steps from here – ”

It’s stupid and senseless, but those few words are enough for him to build an entire fantasy around in the space of a few seconds. He imagines leading her there, to his favorite teashop where they know him and bring him his favorite tea and favorite teacakes immediately. He imagines pulling out her chair for her, imagines seating her like a gentleman, imagines watching her sip her tea. Imagines talking to her, learning about her, laughing with her. Imagines their knees brushing against each other under the small table. It’s – laughable, really, how simple and innocent this fantasy is compared to some of the others he’s entertained this past week, not to mention their only previous encounter. But he can see it so clearly, for those few brief seconds at least. Can see her smiling at him, in a way she never has.

“No,” she says, and the fantasy dissipates to dust. She looks frightened, and he remembers all the reasons he shouldn’t be touching her – both for his own sanity and for her sense of security. “Thank you. But if we could stand out of the wind…”

“Of course,” he says, hand falling to his side. Despite his easy agreement he feels thoroughly off balance; this isn’t going quite as he thought it would.

She crosses the street and he follows her, trails her down an alley where she halts and stands with her back to the brick wall of a building – and he wonders how it is she’s not afraid to be alone with him in such a secluded, deserted place. It’s dark, the only illumination coming from a few lighted windows high above, protected from the wind but still cold. He’s not at all convinced it’s any better than standing where they were, but she isn’t shivering quite as much so perhaps it is an improvement. Still… Before he can talk himself out of it, he shrugs out of his heavy overcoat, offering it to her.

“Here.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t – ” she protests, and it occurs to him that she might find the thought of being surrounded by his body heat and scent distasteful. He doesn’t blame her for that, but Russian winters are nothing to be taken lightly.

“I insist,” he – well, insists, and she reluctantly accepts it from him. He watches as she drapes it over her shoulders, wraps herself up in it, and the sight of her there wearing _his_ coat, decorated with _his_ medals – oh, this was a mistake.

“Thank you.”

He nods, mouth too dry to speak.

She seems to be having trouble speaking as well, mouth opening and closing a few times as she tries to find the words to say whatever it is she needs to and he tries to forget the way her mouth felt on him. Cold as it is his body is still responding, to the memory, to her proximity, to the deep possessive thrill of seeing her wearing his coat. Oh, god, such a mistake.

“I need travel papers,” she says finally, tripping over the words. “A passport, an exit visa – ”

The things she’d been arrested attempting to purchase, though those would have been forgeries of course. Whatever he expected, it wasn’t this, and he can’t quite imagine why she’s telling him this. Except –

“You can’t try to buy them on the street as before,” he says, stern to hide his sudden fear. “I can’t…” _help you again_ , he almost continues, but he didn’t help her, did he? Not exactly.

“That’s not – ” She shakes her head, huffs a little laugh, though it lacks all amusement. “I need travel papers.”

He looks at her, completely at a loss – until she hooks a finger into his belt loop and pulls him to her. Suddenly he’s overwhelmed by the feel of being pressed to her from head to toe, his half-hard cock nestled against her belly in a way she can’t fail to notice. She’s warm and soft and spreading her legs so that he can stand between them, looking up at him with deep solemn eyes. His breath catches.

“I’ll do anything.” Her hand rests on his belt buckle, less than an inch from the rapidly hardening bulge under his fly.

For a moment all he can think about is how much he wants her to touch him the way she did before, in his office, touch him and make him forget that she’s doing it only under duress. Except the guilt he still feels will make it impossible to forget. He grabs her wrist firmly.

“Anya, stop.” His voice is as firm as his hold on her – he means it this time, in a way he didn’t the week before. Oh, he’d thought he meant it then, but he hadn’t understood what it would do to him, taking advantage of her desperation. How it would make him hate himself. “I don’t want – ”

Her fingers dip down, tracing the outline of his dick, throbbing and confined and impossibly hard inside his trousers. Amusement glints in her eyes, turns up the corner of her full lips.

“You don’t want?”

He does want. He _does_. More than anything – or more than almost anything. Not more than he wants not to hurt her again. That thought gives him the strength – mental, not physical; physically she’s such a little thing he could lift her and toss her across the street, but he’s weak to her in other ways – to not just still her hand but pull it away from him, pin it to the brick wall and hold it there.

“I don’t. Last week – I shouldn’t have – I didn’t – ”

“Didn’t think it was worth it? Didn’t enjoy it?” she challenges. “My mistake, I thought the way you – ”

“Of course I _enjoyed_ it,” he grits out, interrupting her before she can catalogue all of the humiliating signs of his eagerness before. His face is burning with embarrassment even in the cold. “But I shouldn’t have – allowed – it wasn’t right.”

She blinks at him, confused and upset. “But I need travel papers.”

It’s the most difficult thing he’s ever done in his life, but he releases his hold on her and steps away. “I can’t help you.”

“Then who can?” she asks. “Who else is able to sign them? Your superior? That captain?”

“You can’t go to them,” he says, alarmed. “You can’t – ”

They won’t say no. No one would, he can hardly believe _he_ is, and the thought of any of his comrades touching her…

“You don’t understand,” she snaps, and he’s surprised by the anger in her voice, the tears welling in her eyes. “I _need_ travel papers. I thought – I hoped – But if you won’t help me I have to find someone who will.”

She’s almost frantic, and he feels chilled to the bone, not just because he absolutely knows she _will_ find someone, but because her desperation is more than the general desire for an easier life somewhere else. It suggests she’s guilty of something serious, perhaps wanted somewhere for it. It’s one thing to end up in front of a firing squad for attempting to purchase travel papers, but the Cheka visit much worse punishment on counterrevolutionaries. He’s done it himself, or ordered it done, watched. He imagines her at the mercy of someone like him, someone with knowledge and skills and – Maybe someone who enjoys it, in a way he never has – He can’t bear it.

“Anya – ” he begins, uncertain of what he intends to say. She looks at him and the color slowly drains from her face, along with the emotions. They’re replaced by stark fear of the kind he’s used to seeing in people who have good reason for it.

“Deputy Commissioner, please – ” she says, and he knows that for a moment she’d forgotten to whom she was speaking. Forgotten that any of what she’s just revealed is cause enough to bring her back in for questioning. Were she anyone else he knows he wouldn’t hesitate; she’s hiding secrets of great import, all his instincts tell him so. But for once he doesn’t want to heed those instincts, doesn’t want to root out those secrets. “I’m sorry. I won’t – Please don’t arrest me.”

Is it just that he wants her? Is that why he feels so… Protective, so disinclined to do his duty where she’s concerned? Beautiful women have been offering themselves to him since he first began to gain prominence within the party; not one of them has ever moved him even so far as to let her touch him, much less – Well. It can’t just be that, can’t just be lust, must be something else, something about her determination, her pride, her resolve. He feels a strange connection, one he knows he can’t allow, but still… Clearly it’s not something within his control.

She is determined to leave the country. She said she would do anything and she meant it. She said she would find someone else and he believes her. Commissioner Gorlinsky, assuming she’s ever able to catch him in Leningrad, would certainly take her up on her offer – but he is not the type to ignore guilt when it comes to serious offenses. Not the type to ignore his instincts either. That’s true of most of the men who could give her what she wants. The rest of them would be more likely to agree to help her, get what they want from her, and then laugh in her face while leading her to her execution rather than keep their promise. What recourse would she have, anyway? He’s seen it before, all too often. Each of those options puts her into the hands of someone who will hurt her, either out of cruelty or under orders.

He tries to stifle the insidious voice inside his head whispering that he would never hurt her, that she would be safe with him, not just because it’s so tempting to listen to it but because he knows it isn’t true. He’s hurt her already, hasn’t he?

“Please,” she says again, interrupting his whirling thoughts. She’s so beautiful, even in the dark.

He doesn’t quite know how it happens, certainly doesn’t decide to do it, but somehow his finger is beneath her chin, gently urging her to look up at him, and then his lips are on hers. For a moment that’s all it is, just his mouth against hers, just him wondering what the hell he’s doing. He imagines she’s wondering the same. But then he traces his finger over the line of her jaw and cups the back of her head, and she releases a little sigh, parting her lips just enough that he can slip his tongue between them. He strokes into her mouth slowly, carefully, wishing he’d done this the week before, wishing he could taste himself on her – although perhaps not. Her taste alone is heady enough. It’s warm and sweet, honey and lemon… Tea, he supposes, but he’s never tasted any tea quite like this, never felt so dizzy from a simple cup.

Her tongue meets his, hesitant, and he wonders if it’s possible she’s never done this. He… Well, it’s just about the only thing he _has_ done. The fact that this might be her first kiss probably ought to make him even gentler, but instead he finds himself deepening the contact, holding her firmly in place as he explores her. She moans softly against his lips and he surges forward, pining her to the wall; she moans again, opens wider, arches against him until he can feel her soft curves yielding beneath him. Somehow her breast is in his hand, heavy and full, with just a hint of hardened nipple pebbled beneath his palm as he kneads and caresses her. He wants… Everything he’s dreamt of for the last week, all of that and more, things he hasn’t even had the courage to admit he wants before now, when denial is impossible. The guilt is still within him but she makes it easy to ignore. She clutches at him and buries her fingers in his hair as though she wants to, stands on her tiptoes and gasps at the feel of his hardness cradled between her thighs as though she wants that too. He gasps in return, shuddering at the friction as she works her hips against him.

He wants to be inside of her.

Much like the kiss, he doesn’t quite know how it happens, doesn’t know exactly how he decided to lift her skirts; he only knows that he is, grabbing handfuls of the fabric and rucking it up almost to her waist, and that she isn’t stopping him. No, she’s helping him, holding the skirts up and out of his way as his fingers trail up her thighs. She’s wearing thick woolen stockings in deference to the weather, but they’re not so thick that he can’t feel the living warmth beneath them. This is especially true when he finally reaches her center. He cups her and marvels at how hot she is there. He’s never realized… He wonders if she’s wet, something he wouldn’t be able to feel through the stockings, but he knows that’s how it happens for women. If they’re aroused, which – is she? It seems as though she is, the way she’s responding to his mouth and hands.

Impatiently he tugs her stockings down almost to her knees. She shudders – at the cold air on her skin, he assumes, but wonders if he can make her shudder for other reasons. He’s not entirely certain… He’s never done this, but men, soldiers, do talk. Most seem to believe women are incapable of enjoying things like this the way men do, but Gleb has always thought that would be most unfair. To her, and to him too, because he suddenly wants nothing more than to be able to make her feel the way he felt with her mouth on him, nothing more than to fill her with pleasure, drown her in it. He wants it so badly his hands tremble as he cups her again. With nothing between them now cupping turns to stroking, his fingers smoothing the soft hair at the apex of her thighs, before drifting down to slip between them.

The heat is so much more intense like this, skin to skin, nearly hot enough to burn him, and she’s – not wet, exactly, not as he might have hoped, but slick enough that he can part her folds easily, slick enough that he can explore her this way without hurting her. At least he doesn’t think the little sounds she’s making in the back of her throat are from pain. He wishes he could break their kiss, wishes he could look down and get his bearings somehow, because she feels… Complicated, difficult to navigate by touch alone. But her mouth is as hot and slick and open as he’d dreamed her cunt might be, and he can’t bear to pull away, can’t bear to stop tasting her. He also can’t bear the thought that if she were able to speak she might tell him _no_ , might tell him not to touch her this way.

So he keeps kissing her, tangling his tongue with hers even as he teases at her with his finger, even as he finally finds her entrance – lower than he expected, for some reason – and nudges carefully inside.

She gasps against his lips, sinks her teeth into the lower one, and his breath catches because she’s so _tight_ , even with just one fingertip barely inside her. He presses forward gently and her body surrenders to him with the slightest protest, plush inner walls opening and parting to accommodate his intrusion. There is an almost painful twist of desire in his belly as he imagines what it would feel like to have his cock inside her, to move within her and feel her surrender like this for him. Tight as she is he’s not entirely certain she could even take it, not entirely certain he wouldn’t hurt her – and he hates that the thought excites him. But he thinks he can add a second finger at least, and does, easing it in to join the first and then spreading them wide, stretching her.

Her head falls back against the wall with a cry. He’s left with two fingers deep in her cunt, staring down into her wide, glazed eyes as she pants and writhes. Ah, they’re so blue.

“Anya,” he murmurs. “Let me – ” He’s not even certain what he wants her to let him do – Take her here, like this? It’s not exactly the way he’d imagined losing his virginity, although he’s given up imagining it long since. The past has never been far enough away; he’s never been certain enough he could actually – Even now, aroused to the point of pain, mind so full of her it’s impossible to imagine he could think of anything else, he still isn’t certain. But he thinks she’d let him try. No, he knows she would, because she’d said she’d do anything –

He freezes.

“What’s wrong?” she murmurs, expression dazed, lips parted. Her breath still comes in short little puffs that drift white in the frigid air, and his fingers are still buried inside of her. It seems awkward, embarrassing, now that the guilt has broken through his lust. Her sleek passage still clasps him so tightly, and he can’t think of any – polite? – way to withdraw, so he’s just… Standing there. Touching her where he has no right to and not sure how to stop.

“This, I can’t –” How is it possible that only minutes after promising himself not to take advantage of her desperation, he’s violating her against a wall in an alley as if he’s some sordid drunk with a whore on Theatre Street? Oh, he hates himself. Again. Still.

He eases his fingers out of her even as her small hand releases its death grip on his uniform and trails down to stroke the hardness straining the seams of his pants. That light pressure sends a bolt of – he doesn’t even know what it is, not pleasure because it hurts too much but not pain either, some deep animal desperation – all through him, and he groans in something like agony.

“You can,” she says, with a sharp wicked smile that melts away into something else, something softer. “I want you to.”

God, he wishes he could choose to believe her, especially when she reaches for his buckle, but he can’t. Not after this last week.

“You want your travel papers,” he snaps. “It’s not the same thing.”

“Yes,” she acknowledges readily. “But I want them from you.”

“Anya –” He feels broken, torn, so unholy tempted. He wants it to be enough.

“You like me, don’t you?” Her voice is soft, almost wistful. “The way you look at me – In your office, I thought – you were kind, I thought it wouldn’t be so bad, to –”

“I do like you.” He says it so quietly it’s near a whisper, as though it’s a confession, as though it’s a secret. And he does, somehow, for some reason, despite the fact that he hardly knows her. Despite the fact that one of the few things he _does_ know is that she’s hiding something dangerous, something he should care about more than he cares about her but just – doesn’t. He does like her, too much to send her to someone else.

The decision is easier to make than he expected.

She smiles at him, a quick flash of even white teeth in the darkness, and he imagines he can see color on her cheeks, as though she’s blushing. Her hand returns to his belt, but again he halts her. He can feel the throbbing of her pulse under the thin skin of her wrists as he pins her arm to the wall again, can feel his own pulse accelerating to match – he likes this, holding her in place, keeping her still for him.

“Let me –” he murmurs once more, his free hand returning to its place between her legs.

She parts them a little more, making it easy to dip into the melting wet warmth there, making it easy to press two fingers deep inside. He holds her gaze as he pushes deeper, and she lifts her hips in a way that forces him deeper still. She’s still so tight, opening for him, and he wants to replace his fingers with his dick so desperately. He thinks he’ll go mad with it, the wanting. But he wants more than that too, wants to make her feel the way she made him feel, wants her to come apart like this, come apart in his arms with his mouth on hers.

Experimentally, he strokes her inner walls, increasing the pressure until she shudders – a promising sign, he thinks. She’s wet enough now that his movement is eased by the slick of her arousal, wet enough that he can slide his fingers in and out slowly. Wet enough that he can hear it. The soft rhythmic sound is utterly out of place in this dark alley, so quiet yet somehow so easily heard under the typical bustle of the city at night, loud to his ears at least. There are footsteps just meters away, stragglers rushing to get home and out of the cold, and the fact that any one of them might look down the alley to see him here like this, with her… It ought to horrify him but doesn’t. And she… Such a thought has clearly not even occurred to her, because she’s not taking any care to be quiet, sighing and moaning with every thrust of his fingers inside of her.

It’s nothing more than a happy accident when his thumb brushes over something that makes her cry out as he adjusts his grip. He does it again and again, feeling as lost as ever, wishing once more that he could see exactly what he’s doing, wishing he didn’t have to rely on touch alone. But touch is sufficient, if clumsy; she’s growing impossibly tighter and tighter, to say nothing of the way her breath catches, the way she moves against him, her body begging for release he isn’t entirely certain he can deliver but he’s trying.

“Will you say my name?” he asks, or begs, really. He wants to hear it so desperately. It’s all he can think of even now, even as he works his thumb over her in a steady rhythm, matching it to the movements of his fingers inside her. “Do you even know it?”

Some spark kindles in her heavy-lidded eyes, and her parted lips twitch into a smile. “Deputy Commissioner,” she gasps.

He glares down at her, more amused than angry, as he assumes she intended. As punishment, he ceases the motion of his thumb. The strangled incoherent sound she makes is so despairing, so needy, he almost relents; in all his life he never imagined any woman could possibly be so eager for him to do anything, let alone her, let alone this. But she did start it, after all.

“Will you?”

“Gleb,” she moans, gazing at him imploringly, and oh it sounds even more beautiful than he’d imagined, his name in her sweet voice. And not just beautiful either – unbearably arousing. As hard as he is, as hard as he has been this entire time, as hard as touching her like this has made him, the way she says his name is like a bolt of lightning straight to his cock, forcing him to bite his lip to keep from coming in his pants like some pathetic youth. “Gleb, please –”

He kisses her then, crushing his lips to hers, plunging his tongue deep into her mouth – and echoing that with his fingers inside of her, thrusting at a matching pace. The apparently sensitive spot he’s found above her opening throbs under his thumb. She sobs against his lips when he resumes caressing her there, tightening until he can barely move within her despite the fact that she’s drenched now, dripping for him. The best he can manage is a come-hither motion but she seems to like it, gasping and writhing, growing ever tighter.

With a few more flicks of his thumb she seems to break, pulsing around him in a way that makes him lightheaded, imagining what it would feel like around his dick, imagining her body coaxing his orgasm from him until he spills himself deep inside her. He wonders if she’d shudder like this beneath him, wonders what her face looks like in this moment, but he’s still kissing her, too deeply to see anything more than her closed eyelids when he opens his own. Her fingers clutch desperately at his hair and he is filled with an entirely foreign sense of triumph.

She finally goes limp, lips soft and parted as she struggles for breath against his own. Withdrawing his fingers, he can feel her slickness still coating them, and he finally ends their kiss in order to bring them to his mouth and suck the sweetness and salt from his skin. He can’t quite define what she tastes like, just that she tastes like _her_ , just that he wants to press his face between her legs and search out that taste with his tongue. Would that make her feel what he had felt, before? Is that even something men do to women? He supposes he doesn’t care what anyone else does, not when it’s something he wants to do so badly – but not here and now, which is unfortunate as here and now is all they have.

“Gleb,” she murmurs, voice slurred almost as though she’s intoxicated, and he groans at what the sound of his name does to him. “Let me –”

If he weren’t so delirious with need he’d find it humorous, her echoing his own words, but nothing is humorous now, not with her hand sliding out of his hair in a way that leaves his scalp tingling, not when she’s reaching one final time for his belt. He allows himself one endless second to imagine her freeing his cock, stroking him, begging him to take her – allows himself one endless second to imagine obliging her. After feeling her come around his fingers his imagination is very, very detailed, and he has never needed anything so desperately in his entire life as he needs to bury himself to the hilt inside her.

He pulls away.

She looks at him in blank confusion, mouth swollen and bruised with the force of his, hem of her skirt still clutched tight in one hand, still drawn up around her waist. He’s deeply grateful for the darkness of the alley, for the fact that the space between her pale slender legs is hidden in shadow. The sight of her slick and open for him would undoubtedly be too great a temptation to resist. For extra assurance he quickly tugs her thick woolen stockings back into place, concealing her even more completely.

“I thought –” she stammers, distressed. “I thought you – We – My papers, I thought –”

“It’s alright,” he says quietly, reaching out to disentangle her fingers from the fabric of her skirt. It falls once more to mid-calf – too short, even for her short stature – and he smooths the heavy folds over her gently-flared hips. Not because she needs him to but because he wants to touch her, wants to have some slight idea of what it might have been like to grasp her curves while thrusting deep inside of her. He wishes… Well, he wishes a lot of things. But he doesn’t think he’ll regret what he’s doing, not really.

“It’s not alright! I need – You _know_ I need – I thought –” she stammers, before taking a deep breath and pinning him with a wounded look. It sits awkwardly on her delicate face still flushed from the afterglow. “How could you?”

“Come by the office Wednesday,” he says, making a mental note to send Gorlinsky on some tedious errand on the other side of the city that day. “The papers will be ready. One passport, one visa.”

She blinks at him in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

He doesn’t either. Oh, he understands what he’s doing and why he’s doing it well enough; he’s keeping her safe, as best he can, even if not quite from himself. But he doesn’t understand how he has the willpower to do it, or where that strength and determination has come from. Not when he’s been fully hard for what feels like hours, prick throbbing angrily in the confines of his trousers, uncomfortably sticky and unspent.

“The papers will be ready,” he repeats, forcing himself not to think about the unsatisfying orgasm he’ll have to give himself before he can even consider leaving the alley. “You don’t have to – You’ve already – Just – That’s all you need, isn’t it? You won’t – Ask anyone else?”

He holds his breath, although it’s unreasonable to feel such uncertainty. No one else could arrange the papers any faster than he can. But perhaps she won’t trust it, not when she doesn’t feel she’s... Paid for it in full.

“Yes,” she says quietly. “That’s all I need. And no, I won’t ask anyone else. I didn’t _want_ to ask anyone else, Gleb. Only you.”

Something about the soft way she says it makes his chest ache.

_Only you. Gleb. Only you. Only you._

The words echo in his mind long after she’s gone, long after he’s left alone in the alley with his cock in his grip, making himself come with a few short, quick strokes. They echo in his mind then too as he imagines her there with him, her hand in place of his, whispering them in his ear.


End file.
